


Friction

by Anonymous



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Return to Treasure Island (TV 1996)
Genre: M/M, Overstimulation, PWP, Seriously there are not even traces of plot here, a bit of powerplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 07:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15746670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “How much?” he’d asked back then.“As much as it takes,” Ross replied.





	Friction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Im_a_huge_fan_of_coffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Im_a_huge_fan_of_coffee/gifts).



> A little gift for [Vennor](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/vennor). I am _so, so sorry._
> 
> Filthy, filthy porn ahoy. You have been warned.

 

“H- hurts,” Ross pants, but his rim is fluttering around the head of Jim’s cock in a way that tells him that his body has already accepted the intrusion, relaxed and opened up.

For Jim.

Like it always does in helpless need, much like the sturdiest rocks crumble from the softest caresses of water.

Still. It _is_ their second time now and Jim knows the sort of tenderness one can’t control, only accept, when the body is asked to give and give and give. He knows how to handle the feeling, how to magnify it and twist it into white hot satisfaction.

Patience, gentleness, love. He will make it good for Ross, but it would be kinder now to keep going than to cause him to stretch again through the withdrawal.

He runs his fingertips over the planes of Ross’ stomach, feels it quiver beneath his touch, traces new trails over his skin and through the dark, coarse hair. He wonders how it can be that Ross is so oblivious to the reactions of his own body until Jim drags them out of him.

Or perhaps it’s exactly as Ross wants it to be; perhaps he _needs_ Jim to do these things to him.

After all, Ross exists because he feels, unlike most other people who feel because they exist.

“Still?” he asks and searches the eyes made black with desire, because Ross’ head might be pressed to one side as if he could hide from himself in the pillows, but their gazes have never strayed from each other.

“A bit. But –“

“More?”

“Yeah… More.”

He loves watching the exact moment when his Ross feels Jim’s cock pass inside him: the widening of his eyes, the way he can never look away as Jim pushes through him, deeper and deeper, letting him feel his own slow impalement.

It’s never like this later, never so pronounced and nuanced: slow drag and slippery wetness, tight heat and the feeling like coming back home. People call it ‘becoming one’ for the sheer sense of completeness, but Jim thinks they overlook the process, the slow melding of their bodies, the twists and shivers, muscles stretched and relaxed and held _just so_ in place.

It’s always like this between them; it’s about the friction.

Jim remembers the old cartoons where a character would sometimes strike a match off their own stubble and he wonders if with Ross, it might actually be possible.

Everything: this, _them_ , how they are and how much they both need is based on sparks, which ignite off each other and burn them in turn, and which have to be continuously put out with love, quenched with _having_ and _holding_.

“Please,” Ross had said when they first started, ground down by responsibility, fraying around the edges from this constant battle, which for him is called Life, lost in search of himself.

Jim looked up, sauntered closer, took his hands into his own and for a long while just held him close.

“How much?” he’d asked back then.

“As much as it takes,” Ross replied.

“Breathe,” he reminds Ross now, watches his chest expand before him and fill in with air; he’d kiss the breaths into him if he had to, has done in the past, when the younger man was really just too far gone.

He sees how it helps, how breathing provides Ross with a steady rhythm he’s been looking for, how the tension melts away from the curves of his frame.

“Tell me.”

“I feel…” Ross hesitates, runs his hands flat down his own body, as if he could gauge its exact state like this, but obediently avoids his own cock. “You. Just you. Everything is… focussed. And I’m… completely filled with it.”

“Good. Now relax.”

For a push to occur, there must be a pull first. He watches the resistance of Ross’ entrance, as he drags himself almost all the way out, not quite, and then thrusts, slow but deep, causing a whimper and fists clutching at the sheets, as if he could hold himself together like this, and a little trickle of wetness from the head of Ross’ cock.

“Give in,” he murmurs, softer and quieter than he needs to be, leaning down to smuggle in some kisses that will take and take and take a bit more from Ross. “Give it up and let me fuck you like you need to be fucked.”

“Nnnn… too much,” Ross protests, but one of his hands is in Jim’s hair and it’s no longer trying to rip the sheets into pieces. He doesn’t use his word, hazy-eyed and challenging despite, or perhaps _because_ of what he feels.

The next movement is slower, more liquid still, because Ross needs to cross and Jim needs to be there to guide him through it.

“Give in,” he whispers again and Ross pulls at him a bit, making it hard to move when he’s held in place inches above his face.

“Hnnnngh…” he moans when Jim nails his prostate again, but takes the feeling, lets it spread across his body and carry him to places that seemed too far to reach a moment ago.

Jim gently wraps his fingers around his other fist, the one that still tortures the covers, and slowly, little by little, eases it free, so he can slot his own fingers in between Ross’, because if anyone deserves to be punished here, it’s him.

 _Now_ he’s ready: legs spread wide and pressed flat to his chest, his body full of Jim, his cock standing proud and swollen between them.

“Ross?”

“Fuck me.”

So Jim does: easy, close and intimate, with a rhythm and momentum dictated by his own need, which he knows will destroy Ross. They make so much noise together, between grunts and lewd slaps of skin on skin and cries of pleasure so ripe, they balance, ever so carefully, on the right side of pain.

“Ffffuck – Oh fuck, Oh God, Jimmm…”

It’s always like this between them; it’s about the friction.

They touch each other in ways no one else could ever fathom, they push, cause a reaction, take each other just that little bit further. And through it all they love; they burn with it and they cling to each other through every second of it.

They meet together now, in hard, violent almost collisions of flesh, rhythm and pounding of their hearts.

“I love you, I love you, I l- love… ahhh!” Jim pants, thoughts spilling into words, and there are eyes before him, so wide, so helpless, so pleading, and lips savagely bitten to somehow stem the overwhelming flow of sensations.

He comes with his forehead pressed into Ross’ collar bone, surrounded by a trembling body, broken half-words and an array of curses. Around him, beneath him, against him, Ross shakes apart with an orgasm like destruction, like lightening wrecking his body, or aftershocks of an earthquake. With utter amazement Jim realises that he’s felt it going on for several minutes now, and there’s no way Ross can see him, not with the way his eyes are blown.

He cradles his cheek and stays in place despite the shivers running down his own spine, so Ross can have the last drops of his pleasure from the rhythmical tightening around his cock.

He knows Ross is finally back, when he slowly nuzzles into the gentle touch on his face, but he won’t have his words back for a while yet.

“Easy now,” Jim warns, before taking an age to carefully slide out of Ross’ tight, wet heat. Even so, it causes a quiet little noise of discomfort and he knows that they are done for tonight.

He takes a moment to look at the body he has wrecked: stark splatters of white against dark hair, heaving chest, limbs carelessly flung askew and exhausted eyes full of peace. He can almost see the soft glow of low embers inside those eyes, or the lazy curls of smoke in the air between them.

There is only space left now for kindness, for tender brushes of wet cloth and cautious tucking in of the covers around a body that curls up on its own. Words of approval and love to settle down in Ross’ heart in place of all that uncertainty which pushed him to ask for this in the first place.

And Jim’s own love: bright, sated, humbling.


End file.
